Page 24 of Breaking Away

And. God.

How I’d almost admitted to him a very private, personal confession. Maybe Tyler wants an open relationship because he knows I faked my orgasms with him the whole time.

Another honk sounds.

Maybe a split second has passed, but the driver’s follow-up warning jolts me into action. I stumble to the side, but it’s too late?—

A large body lifts me out of the way. The driver screeches to a stop with me safely a few steps away.

As heat sinks into my skin, I realize I can’t shift my head as it’s currently crushed against a wall. My racing heart is matched—no, outmatched—by the one I feel under my cheek. Whoever rescued me has the steadiest, most rock-solid arms but isn’t steady on the inside.

My eyes land on tattoos.

“Lokhov,“I gasp.

A follow-up realization: He must think I’m actually brainless considering what just happened. I try dislodging myself, but he allows precious little movement. My nose is buried in his chest. Massive arms tighten around me as if I’m not trusted to move on the power of my own feet.

From the sounds of it, the driver of the car has gotten out and is very apologetic. Lokhov does not care. He’s barking out questions, including whether the man understands speed limits,whathe was thinking, how he couldhurtpeople, and whether he should own a fucking vehicle.

It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him speak. Harsh, really.

“The walking sign was done!” the driver pleads. “I didn’t think?—”

Lokhov’s chest reverberates with an agitated noise. Against me, that’s—a feeling I will remember alone later.

Rain is falling harder and our clothes are getting damp. Certain muscle ridges are outlined. His strength is so solid andsupportive. I could melt into it, surrendering to whatever he wants to do with me, literally anything?—

I wrench myself away.

“Stop harassing him,” I scold, feeling disoriented. “The walk signwasdone and everything is fine. Look. I’m fine.”

As Lokhov stares at me, I use my hand to shoo the driver away, in a quickleave-while-you-still-canmovement. Not needing any more encouragement, the driver leaps into his seat and screeches away.

More honks sound because, glancing around, I see we are still in the middle of a street, albeit a smaller one that is branched off from the main one, so there hasn’t been more traffic until now.

Lokhov turns his head to the car approaching us and stares. (He really has a staring problem.)

Tattooed, wet, and wearing black. The effect is that instead of us moving to allow the car’s right of way, the vehicle waits for us to figure out what we want to do next.

“Stop scaring the public!” Grabbing Lokhov’s arm, I pull him off onto the sidewalk, knowing it’s only possible because the big hockey player has allowed himself to be moved.

Once we’re safely tucked into the nook of a closed storefront, and no longer a menace to society, Lokhov turns his displeasure back on me. His jaw is a brutal line.

“You almost got hit,” he sneers.

“Yes. Would you like an apology?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I should thank you,” I say. “You saved me from—well—knee scratches, at the very least. But I also feel like lecturing you at the same time.”

“Basra.”

“That driver is probably crapping his pants right now.”

“Good. He should have?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “We’re not getting into that.”

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